


Captivity

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violent Sex, all's fair in shitty ships and bad grips (on reality), bit of a sketchy thing to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 15:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: Waylon never left the vocational block.





	Captivity

Waylon had been strung up for weeks, almost too numb to think about the constant throb of a heartbeat in his tired wrists. He’d seen the same thing happen, day in and day out. Eddie would speak with him, mention breakfast (which never came), and coffee (which never brewed), and finally his work as a tailor. He would come to Waylon and sit at his naked feet with a needle and thread in hand. Start to stitch up old clothing that seemed to need a trashcan more than it did a tenacious touch.

 

They would stay like that for a while, because Waylon couldn’t move, and because Eddie mentioned that he liked to look up and see something so beautiful. That comment, or some variation of it, always managed to send shivers up and down Waylon’s spine. He was weak, now. He’d been in ‘Massive for far too long.

 

Eddie would get up when he felt finished, or when, inevitably, familiar and fast footsteps started traveling from one room to the next, up then down, hurried then hesitant. Waylon had tried to scream for Eddie’s victim’s attention, once. He’d earned a backhand and cloth shoved roughly into his mouth for the rest of the day, and when Eddie had finished with the ‘women’ he ensnared, he smeared the red from his hands into Waylon’s jumpsuit, torn as it was right down the middle.

 

Waylon learned not to scream, after that.

 

Days passed quickly. Waylon was up against a window. Sometimes when he leaned back, he could see a probable escape. But most of the time, he kept his eyes on the shadows that danced underfoot, waiting patiently for day to evaporate, and for night to arrive.

 

In the asylum, night was usually something to fear. There were horrors around every corner, and true to the old adage, the craziest ones tended to meet the moon instead of the sun. Waylon had been so afraid for himself, when he was alone. So afraid he would be paraded and torn apart, left for those who wanted to plunge themselves heartlessly and fruitlessly into the dead. He would have given anything to guarantee his safety.

 

But as he felt for the ropes that bound him to Gluskin’s block, Waylon realized that he’d given too much.

 

“Always so tense, darling,” Eddie said, dragging a careful hand across Waylon’s stomach.

 

The former programmer gasped, unsure of what this gentleness meant. Eddie was usually upset with himself when he found Waylon, later on. He’d failed the others, failed his future children. Failed those who wanted to see him happy, whatever black soul that might have been. It was unbearable. Waylon could understand it. He’d grown so used to the coppery stench of blood and guts and death that he felt it only right to sympathize.

 

But he knew what he was in for when Eddie was angry. This sweet version, the fingertips ghosting his skin, that had only happened a handful of times.

 

“Maybe if you let me rest,” Waylon whispered, his eyes finding different things to look at.

 

Eddie’s Frankenstein vest. The bulge of his thigh muscles through his trousers. The floorboards, which creaked and squealed, dry blood staining the brown an almost alluring shade of orange.

 

Sooner than he could take back the words, Eddie’s hand was like a vice around Waylon’s jaw, squeezing insistently, daring him to look up.

 

“I know you like it better this way.” Eddie said, his tone almost gentle. “Ready for me. Pliant. Open.”

 

Waylon’s breath started coming in faster. He whined, just a little. Couldn’t help himself.

 

“Yes,” he agreed.

 

Waylon would have babbled on, but Eddie chose that moment to lurch forward, capturing his mouth in a rough, desperate kiss. It wasn’t something Waylon wasn’t used to. It really wasn’t. But his arms still strained against their bonds, and his legs still whipped forward, looking for the right place to hook onto.

 

“Eddie,” he murmured brokenly into the killer’s mouth. He was given a firm shake in return, tongue licking across his lower lip suggestively.

 

“Whore,” Eddie returned.

 

He stepped back, seemingly at odds with himself and the situation. Waylon watched him think, his eyes, blue and red and white, roaming over the broken lines of Waylon’s body. This was common too, though newer than other things. Waylon thought it signified lucidity, once. Now he knew it was just the calm before a storm.

 

“You’re lonely,” someone told Waylon.

 

It took him a long minute to understand it was still Eddie, just closer. His breath was falling unevenly on Waylon’s collarbone. He shivered involuntarily. Eddie seemed delighted by it. He grabbed a fistful of Waylon’s hair and forced his head back, forced the column of his neck to lengthen almost impossibly.

 

Eddie watched Waylon while he breathed wetly into the crook of his neck. He was trying to give Waylon something, maybe. Some pleasure he knew he would otherwise neglect. Waylon handled it the way he handled the rest; adjusted so that It felt better.

 

“I have you,” Waylon answered, his voice all but gone.

 

It was a script they developed, through time and trial and error. Eddie wanted Waylon to want him. Needed him to need him. But he wouldn’t beg his captive to beg him. Not if he could be told he was loved, instead. Waylon almost liked it, now. He almost did. And he thought he really would like it if he could see what came next instead of this demented minesweeper he was left to decipher.

 

Eddie reached for the jumpsuit’s zipper, nearly gone, now. He pulled it down further, exposing Waylon fully. The cold air of the vocational block made his eyes water. He’d grown so cold since he’d been thrown into ‘Massive. Waylon couldn’t retain anything, anymore. Heat was chief. Memory was a close second. Which worked for Waylon, because he was sure what little of his sanity had remained would surely flee at the first sign of a solid glance toward his past. Toward the things both he and Eddie had done.

 

“You want me?” Eddie asked.

 

It was almost coherent. Almost.

 

He was shoving Waylon’s legs apart, ordering him wordlessly to hook them around Eddie’s back. The tailor squeezed Waylon’s ankles for emphasis. It hurt, but despite the wretched glow of agony that shot up from his left leg, the pain could have been much worse.

 

“I need you,” Waylon insisted through a ragged groan.

 

They gravitated toward this each night. Eddie would come in, and he’d be upset. He would be sad. He would be furious. Waylon was there, listening and supportive, talking just to talk. Alive because he was too dumb and too cowardly not to act up and end it all. Willing because after a while, it seemed nice. The attention and the love.

 

Eddie’s affection was the most confusing, because Waylon found he wanted it more than anything in the world. He would have given all his fingers and toes to hear Eddie sing his praises. Would have fallen on rusty nails to be met with clever compliments and earnest declarations.

 

And the nightly visits weren’t so bad. Not when he gave into them.

 

Eddie was lining his erection up with Waylon’s ass now, tired of waiting, it seemed. His hair was disheveled, and he smelled more like sweat than sluts. A purity in the whole goddamn mess. Waylon eased himself onto Eddie. He grew tired of waiting, too.

 

From there, it was a horribly satisfying grind, the both of them searching manically for what they wanted from the encounter. Eddie was pumping himself in and out of Waylon furiously. He wanted the return, maybe. The confirmation. But all Waylon could do was moan about it, his mouth falling open in an imperfect ‘o’, his stomach clenching and unclenching with the pleasure-pain.

 

“For me, darling,” Eddie was saying, biting into Waylon’s skin, drawing blood. “Do it for me.”

 

That was all it took. Waylon came with a strangled cry, clenching around Eddie. He followed shortly after, hands wrapped around Waylon’s neck. Waylon’s vision almost whited out, but in the end, it didn’t. Eddie pulled out and got behind Waylon. Unhooked his hands, bound them behind his back, and held the smaller man.

 

Waylon cried, but he didn’t know what for.

 

Eddie shushed him. Told him he was perfect. And stupidly, Waylon believed.


End file.
